


Just Another Tile Floor

by LeighLemont



Series: Wincesty One Shots [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blink And You Miss It Slash, Hurt Sam Winchester, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 15:33:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17583551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeighLemont/pseuds/LeighLemont
Summary: He’d noticed it first a couple days ago when Sam had tugged on a long-sleeved shirt on their way to talk to a few of the locals about some suspicious disappearances under the guise of being rangers. They were in Arizona. In May. He had a pretty good idea what was going on with Sam, he just wasn’t sure how to bring it up or whether he should. He was pretty worried Sam was going to end up with heat stroke though if he didn’t intervene.





	Just Another Tile Floor

**Author's Note:**

> I adore comments so if you gave/give it a read let me know what you think!

Dean drummed his fingers absently on the steering wheel. There was something about the way Sam was holding his body. Something familiar feeling about how Sam was curled in on himself like he was trying to sink out of existence. Dean had been watching Sam for most of the day out of the corner of his eye. 

He’d noticed it first a couple days ago when Sam had tugged on a long-sleeved shirt on their way to talk to a few of the locals about some suspicious disappearances under the guise of being rangers. They were in Arizona. In May. He had a pretty good idea what was going on with Sam, he just wasn’t sure how to bring it up or whether he should. He was pretty worried Sam was going to end up with heat stroke though if he didn’t intervene. 

“Lose the sweater, Sam.” Dean suggested over the music in the car, trying to sound nonchalant. It was as much about testing his theory about what was going on, as it was making Sam stop being a moron. He nodded towards the air conditioning blasting in the car. “Be a lot more comfortable.” 

“I’m fine, Dean.” Sam replied. He was leaning against the window of the Impala, not asleep, not reading, just laying there against it, holding his own body like it was going to shatter. Sam’s hair had been limp with sweat since this morning, and he had as much air blowing on him as possible. 

“Right.” Dean rolled his eyes, frustrated. He was frustrated with himself and Sam, but he knew that wasn’t fair to be mad at Sam for this. He didn’t know how to start conversations like the one he wanted to have and it was hard not to give Sam the ownership for putting them here. Again. Dean didn’t blame him for hurting though. Sam was definitely justified in hurting. 

Sam had wanted out of the life so bad, and he’d somehow made it out against all odds. He’d proven to himself, and the world, and from a distance to a certain John Winchester, time and time again that he could do it alone if that’s what it took. That he didn’t need his family if they didn’t want him anymore. That he could make it with nothing but the shirt on his back, pure willpower, and enough brains to make sure he nabbed a large enough scholarship. He’d spent so much effort and time and persistence building normal up around himself and encasing himself in it. 

And then normal had died. 

Sam’s life had gone from -normal boy, normal school, normal girlfriend, normal life- to - back to being a little brother, back to the demon-hunting car, back to the supernatural- in less than seventy two hours. 

Dean was fairly sure Sam hadn’t even felt like he’d had a choice between leaving and staying at Stanford after. Sam hadn’t mentioned going back since. Sam’s decision had been immediate. He’d packed a bag, slid into the car beside Dean, and stared out the window lifelessly until Dean had pulled them off the highway, gotten a room, and told him to to go sleep. Sam now understood their father and his obsession over the thing that killed mom in a way he never had before in his life and he knew even if he tried to stay and finish school, it was over. 

Jess had died. So had Sam’s normal.

“Look, It’s like ninety degrees.” Dean said after a few minutes of silence. 

Sam ignored him completely as though he hadn’t spoken again, and Dean wanted to tear his own hair out. He decided to take a less drastic, and more direct approach. Sam’s refusal was proof enough of Dean’s suspicions. Sam wasn’t actually an idiot, even if he was acting like one. He had enough self-preservation to take off a damned sweater when he was hot. He pulled the car over, killing the stereo, and parked on the side of the highway, letting his head fall back against the seat. They both knew this routine well. Dean wouldn’t drive again until they talked about it. 

Neither of them spoke.

The only sound was coming from the idling engine and the air conditioner. Any number of possibilities presented themselves in this scenario, none of them new. Sam might get out of the car and start walking in whatever direction they were headed until Dean stopped being angry or upset enough to catch up in the Impala and let him back in. Depending on the issue, they sometimes got out and fought it through. Sometimes they got out and sat on the trunk of the car, drinking a beer before one of them would finally speak. Regardless, they wouldn’t drive again until some of the air was clear. 

“I’m sorry.” Sam whispered, sounding ashamed and small. Dean didn’t have to ask him why. It was about as close as Sam would ever come to acknowledging it head on. They talked around it when they talked about it, never really about it. 

“You don’t have to be sorry.” Dean was struggling to find the right words. He lifted his head from the seat and turned to Sam with a helpless expression. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing. Sam was generally the talker, the better one at expressing himself. Sam was usually the one that made them sit down and hash things out. Dean usually resisted or went along with it unwillingly, but rarely did he insist on one such conversation himself. It was always a sign of how bad things were when these specific roles were reversed. “Sam, it’s just me. I already know what’s...It’s okay.” 

“Don’t.” Sam hadn’t moved, but his knuckles were white curled around the edge his shirt. Sam always seemed so afraid when they talked about this, nothing like the confident, joking, clever Sam that normally sat across from him and bantered back and forth. 

“Listen to me.” Dean said. He sounded like he was begging and he couldn’t help but cringing at himself. He pressed on anyway. Sam needed to hear him. “You been covering up. We both know why.” 

Dean flashed back to a much younger Sam, sobbing in Dean’s arms on the floor of a hotel bathroom, begging him not to tell dad and swearing he wouldn’t do it again. He had done it again, so many more times after that, but Dean hadn’t told on him anyway. Dean didn’t know much about this kind of thing, but there hadn’t been anyone to ask. He’d kept his mouth shut because he didn’t think dad yelling at Sam for ‘wasting medical supplies’ would really have helped anything. 

Picking Sam up off of that cold tile floor had been a lot easier than this conversation and similar ones since. He’d known how to take care of the physical hurts and how to make Sam feel safe in the moment, but the turmoil that had caused the hurts still eluded him. Dad’s answer to personal suffering was to push it down and drink, and that was pretty much Dean’s solution too, but he knew that wasn’t any more healthy than what Sam did. 

“I don’t want it to be real.” Sam licked his lips cautiously, scanning Dean’s face. 

“It already is, Sammy.” Dean replied, a gentle sadness creeping into his voice. He didn’t know whether they were talking about Jess being gone, or about Sam’s self-inflicted injuries, or just about the world being shitty in general, but it all seemed one in the same. “But you don’t have to be uncomfortable all day. No one’s here. ” 

“I couldn’t help it.” Sam said quietly. His eyes were red, but his voice steady. He was looking in Dean’s general direction, but not at his face. It was a lot easier to talk to the amulet hanging on Dean’s chest. “It’s not forever. I need...something.” 

“Yeah, I know.” The sad part was, Dean did know. When things got hard, Dean had always buried himself in women and liquor, on occasion a harder substance or two. Sam had always buried himself in pain. Dean had never understood Sam’s type of escape, but Dean understood wanting to be out of his own head and he knew that’s what it did to Sam. “Sammy. It’s just us. I won’t even look.” 

Sam nodded, but didn’t move right away. Dean didn’t know how long it would take him, but he would wait and Sam knew it. There was no point in pushing because Sam was likely going as fast as he could. Very slowly, Sam pulled his arms through the holes of his sweater and lifted it over his head. He dropped it in his lap, twisted in his hands, with a harsh exhale. He was sweaty, his thin t-shirt clinging to him, Dean could practically feel the heat rolling off Sam now that the sweater was gone. 

Dean could see the red lines along Sam’s arm in his peripheral as he pushed the car back into drive and rejoined the highway. He didn’t look closer because he’d promised Sam and it was important that Sam trusted him with this. He resisted the urge to reach out, to inspect the damage. Sam knew how to treat the wounds properly and he rarely did damage to himself that required more than a wash, bandage, and some Polysporin. The first thing Dean had done when he’d found out Sam’s secret was make sure Sam’s first aid was damned good to avoid infection. 

“I’m going to stop.” Sam said a long while later. The sun had long vanished and Dean had dialed back the air conditioner considerably. “Soon.”

“Yeah.” Dean replied. Sam leaned his head against Dean’s shoulder, tucking into that same curled in posture he’d been slipping in and out of since his early teens. The one that announced Sam’s desire to be forgotten by the world. Dean pressed his chin quickly to the top of Sam’s head in acknowledgement, not letting him be forgotten and opened up his arm to let Sam closer. Sam wasn’t alone, he didn’t have to feel that way even though he was hurting. Dean just didn’t know how to say it out loud. 

Sam wasn’t lying. 

He’d stop. 

Until he started again. 

Dean hummed tunelessly as he drove, Sam going heavy against him. He didn’t doubt that Sam would stop, or at least try to. He always stopped until he started again. Months, even years at a time, Sam would hold off or go without feeling any urges until suddenly he couldn’t stop himself. There was always a reason, but Sam never seemed to be able to get away from it. Dean didn’t really see how this time would be different.

Sam would pull himself together and they’d carry on until Sam found himself struggling with his own sadness again. When Sam did, Dean would be there to pick him up off of that proverbial or literal floor somehow too.


End file.
